


Christmas Revelations

by screamingarrows



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Multi, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon realizes he's in love and there's nothing he can do about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Hey gang! Hope ya'll enjoy this!

The office party is in full swing by the time Gaby, Illya, and Napoleon arrive. “We’re fashionably late,” Napoleon had said, smacking his hand against Illya’s chest when the man questions their intentional tardiness. “No one is expected to show up on time.”  
  
He’s only half-wrong; the office floor is packed with people swaying and drinking eggnog and punch from clear glasses. Waverly sees them the moment they walk in and Napoleon can see him raise one eyebrow but doesn’t move away from his own conversation. No doubt the director is unhappy with their lateness, but he’ll allow it since them arriving at all was a rarity in itself.

It’s no surprise that Illya isn’t a fan of huge parties and avoids them when he can. Gaby, while enjoying the ability to go, prefers to stay home with Illya, and Napoleon doesn’t have nearly as much fun at the parties as he once did without his partners and keeps himself secluded in solidarity with them. It’s a direct order from Waverly that has brought them out this time, a strict suggestion that he had better see them at the party. UNCLE wasn’t a punishment and they’d work most successfully if everyone was able to have a basic understanding of each other. Illya was obvious in his disagreement, but rather than argue they gave a quick affirmation and were dismissed.

Napoleon surveys the floor, smirking in satisfaction upon seeing the drink table. He winds his hand around Gaby’s waist and pulls her to him, gesturing with his head silently towards the pseudo bar. Gaby grins up at him and grabs Illya’s wrist before starting on a beeline for it.

With a drink in his hand, Napoleon feels more at ease and drifts comfortably through the party. It’s easy to make small talk with the other agents; it’s his _job_ to be likeable and charming. These people don’t have any reason not to like him, and he mingles amongst them effortlessly as he disappears behind the persona of the perfect man, the one men want to be and women want to be with. His partners occupy the back parts of his thoughts; he’s certain they’re fine. Gaby has never seemed uncomfortable at these events and Illya has been able to socialize smoothly on missions, if he associates this as nothing but another mission from Waverly like Napoleon is, the evening should fly by.  
  
He’s not sure how much time has passed when he sees Gaby making her way across the room. She looks casual, her eyes roaming the room and she smiles at everyone she passes, but Napoleon can identify by the set of her shoulders she has a destination in mind. He follows her path with his eyes and spots Illya holding what Napoleon can only assume to be the first cup of alcohol he’s had. Illya’s not looking at either of them, instead his eyes roam continuously, from door to door to the few people moving fluidly around him to the cup in his hand. Gaby’s nearly to him, and Napoleon excuses himself from the group he’d been conversing with with a smile. He makes it to Illya seconds after Gaby does and he grins at the two of them, downing the remains of his cup and tossing it into the trash can to their left.

“You look like you’re having the time of your life, Peril,” he comments jauntily. Illya’s eyes flicker to him in an eye roll.

“Excuse me if I do not jump in joy at scraps of attention.”

Napoleon huffs and widens his eyes, casting his eyes around the room. “Well I feel that was unnecessary.”

“Come on,” Gaby inputs before Illya can retaliate. “It’s not so bad.”  
  
“Not for you,” Illya corrects and then gives them a forced smile. Napoleon’s eyes narrow in unison with Gaby and he shrugs.  
  
“Fine,” Napoleon says, eyes locked in on the break room that was open but unused. “Let’s go have a party of our own.”

“No, that is not—” Illya starts and Napoleon cuts him off fluidly.  
  
“Gaby, would you be so kind as to grab us a few snacks and meet in the break room?”

Gaby quirks an eyebrow and nods, her dimples deepening a grin into deviousness. She moves off in the direction opposite the food table and he allows himself a moment to admire how far she’s come as a thief, thriving under his teachings.  
  
“Now, Illya,” he says, turning to give him a look out of the corner of his eye. “If you can handle it, secure the break room.” Illya looks torn between protesting and scoffing, so he does neither. He gives Napoleon a withering stare before moving towards the room across the room.

Napoleon smiles to himself and then sets his sights on the bottles of cheap alcohol unattended in the center of the room. By far the least difficult challenge; he maneuvers through the agents, smiling and nodding at the right times to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Either he was all but invisible as he moved through the throngs of people or they just didn’t care to stop him, because he was able to grab several bottles without anyone sparing him a second glance.  
  
“This is stupid,” Illya says the moment both he and Gaby are in the room. Napoleon arrives moments before Gaby, who’s managed to snag a bowl of pretzels and a plate of mini-sandwiches.

“Probably,” Napoleon agrees, arranging their bounty on the counter lining one wall.

“Waverly told us specifically to socialize.” Illya’s arms are crossed over his chest and his gaze flickers to the door.

“Yes,” Gaby says, grabbing a bottle and unscrewing the lid.

“And we did,” Napoleon adds, crunching a pretzel in his mouth. 

“You are impossible.” Gaby and Napoleon give him matching grins. Illya huffs and sinks into a chair, but Napoleon sees the slight eye wrinkles around his eyes that betray his amusement. After pulling the blinds to make the room more secluded, Gaby dances her way to Napoleon, snapping her fingers and moving her hips to the beat of the song playing in the other room. Napoleon’s eyes sparkle and he slides towards her, swaying in rhythm beside her.

It doesn’t take long before they’ve both drunken a little too much. Alone, Illya relaxes and the three of them have fun joking around in their not-so-hidden hiding place. Gaby’s approaching the wrong side of tipsy when Illya wraps his hands around her waist. He leans down and presses a kiss to her jaw.

“I think it is best to go home,” Illya suggests and Gaby’s face falls in exaggerated disappointment.

“We’re having fun,” Gaby says in protest and takes a step forward. Her ankle rolls in the heels she’s wearing and she laughs when Illya’s arms catch her. “You might be right,” she relents. Napoleon watches with his head tilted as Illya gives her the tiniest of smiles, before looking up at Napoleon, smile still on his lips.

“Get your coat, Cowboy. Time to go.”

Napoleon nods, mouth dry, and moves towards the chair holding his jacket. Illya helps Gaby into her coat and Napoleon opens the door, suddenly impatient to be out of the room. The swell of music causes him to blink in surprise and he steps out into the loud room hesitantly, pausing just outside the break room for Illya and Gaby.

He can hear Gaby take a few steps and then curse, angry German falling from her lips quickly. “I’ll throw these shoes away,” Gaby grumbles, in English this time, and grabs onto the doorframe, leaning over to slip her foot back into her heel. Napoleon sees her tilt and before his body moves, Illya’s there, anchoring his body to hers. Gaby looks up at him, beaming, and then her mouth parts as her eyes focus just behind Illya’s head.

“Look,” she says, gesturing with her head while clinging to Illya’s arms. Both Napoleon and Illya follow her gaze. “Mistletoe,” she adds happily.

“Indeed.” Illya looks down at her and the adoration he feels towards her is shown plainly on his face. He starts to edge her out of the room but she tightens her hold on him, face scrunching in extreme seriousness. Napoleon’s heart starts racing in his chest and he’s not sure why. He frowns and looks away from the plant hanging in the doorway. Instead, his eyes are drawn to his friends who are holding onto each other as if they might be torn apart.

“We have to kiss, it’s good luck.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Illya says gently, but moves back into the small space. “Besides, I have all the luck I need.”

Napoleon doesn’t think Illya would be saying that if they hadn’t drunken most of the alcohol, if they both were sober and aware. Gaby rolls her eyes and Napoleon can see her squeeze Illya’s arm.

“Maybe I need the luck,” she counters. Illya pretends to consider this and nods. Napoleon’s stomach tights and he feels jittery, his skin tingling all over.

“Fine, one kiss,” Illya says and leans down to press his lips softly against Gaby’s.

Napoleon’s not sure why he turns and dashes off. It’s not the first time he’s seen them kiss, but it’s the first time it’s made him want scream. He blames it on being drunk, on the alcohol turning his stomach and making his chest tighten. The act of catching a taxi is lost on him, but he remembers the biting cold before he climbs into the back of one. The address he gives to the driver is a block away from his actual address and the walk home sobers him. He arrives home with a clear head and he strips before crawling into bed, burrowing under the covers, trying not to think. It’s not long until he sleeps.

\-----

He wakes thirsty and tired with a heavy feeling of dread in his bones. He didn’t drink enough to feel like this, maybe he’s coming down with something.

He steps out of his room in a daze and then freezes, feeling something not-quite-right about his home. He grabs his robe off the back of his door and wraps it tightly around himself, moving carefully through the apartment. He tenses as walks down the hall, hands clenching into fists at his side, and then he lets out a sigh, relaxing when he sees Gaby sleeping on the couch and Illya emerging from the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Illya says in a whisper. He has a glass of orange juice, clearly meant for himself, but he offers it to Napoleon wordlessly. Napoleon takes it, frowning when his stomach twists.

“You left too quick last night. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Illya explains, standing too close. Napoleon takes a sip of the orange juice, savoring the cool tanginess.

“Are you?” Illya asks, frowning. “I did not think you drank so much but…”

“No, no I’m fine. Just… tired,” Napoleon says, blinking and forcing a smile to his face. “Thanks for your concern.” He gives Illya a pat on the shoulder and hands the glass back to him. Illya takes it back and watches as Napoleon wanders back in the direction of his room.

Napoleon steps into his bathroom and rests his hands on the edge of the sink, looking at his reflection. He looks about as good as he feels and he frowns at himself. He’s not sure what’s wrong and he scrubs his hands over his face. He sighs heavily and hangs his head; his shower enters his peripherals and he starts at it before deciding a shower could probably help.

He spends longer than he should under the warm spray and when he gets out, he finds he does feel better; the tightness in his chest has loosened and his stomach has calmed. He ties a towel around his waist to brush his teeth, leaving when he’s done and breathing easier than he had since he woke up.

Only for his heart to stutter when he sees Illya sitting in the living room, angled to keep an eye on the hallway and the front door. He looks up and Napoleon suddenly feels self-conscious. He’s naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist and he blushes as Illya looks him over with a raised eyebrow. Napoleon’s mouth dries and he’s not sure what the appropriate response to that is, or what that even _was_ , and he turns on his heels and tries not to make it look like a retreat when he disappears into his room.

He comes out, dressed and composed. He’s not certain why his body is acting like this, but he’s not a spy for nothing. Pushing back his unease, he comes into the living room, where Gaby is awake but still sprawled lazily on the couch. He does actually feel slightly better once he’s out there with them, fully awake and clothed with no one’s eyes on him. He joins Illya opposite the couch, sitting in one of his armchairs and smiles brightly at both of them.  
  
“Good morning,” he says happily and he smile turns into something a little more real when Gaby groans and tosses her arm over her face, hiding her eyes in the crook of her elbow.  
  
“Not you too,” she groans and when Napoleon looks, Illya’s smirking her at her.  
  
“You must learn limits. You’re too small to drink so much.”  
  
Immediately she makes in indignant sound and shifts to glare at him over the top of her arm.  
  
“ _Small_? I am perfectly average thank you!”  
  
Napoleon laughs as Illya leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I think not.”  
  
She gasps, looking between the two scandalized, and tosses a pillow in his direction.  
  
“I will not sit here and take this from you two _trees_.”  
  
She gets to her feet and huffs off dramatically to the kitchen. They can hear her opening and shutting the cabinets and Napoleon desperately hopes she’s not creating a mess. He holds out for a minute more before going after her.  
  
“What are you doing in here?”  
  
She spins, her socked feet sliding easily on the tile. “Trying to look for breakfast. Don’t you have anything premade in here?”  
  
Napoleon gives her a blank look and shakes his head once. “I most definitely do not.”  
  
She rolls her eyes and Napoleon walks to the stove and turns on the eye. “What do you want?” Her eyes are mischievous when she smiles at him.  
  
“Surprise me,” she states simply before taking a seat at the small table in the kitchen.  
  
“Very well,” he says, moving to the fridge. “Peril, you hungry?”  
  
Napoleon doesn’t hear an answer but when he closes the door to his fridge, Illya is standing in the doorway of the kitchen.  
  
“I did not know you cook.”  
  
“I don’t do it much.”  
  
“Despite the smell, he’s very good,” Gaby says and the tips of Napoleon’s ears heat.  
  
“Okay,” Illya says before Napoleon can find a way to address that statement. Illya steps forward, only stopping once he’s close enough to see around Napoleon’s frame to watch him mix the ingredients into batter, and then expertly pouring it into the pan warmed on the stove.  
  
He turns and startles when Illya grabs the bowl from his hand.  
  
“Finished?” He asks, moving to the sink. His hand hovers over the faucet.  
  
“Yeah,” Napoleon says, blinking then smiling. “Soaps under the sink.”  
  
Napoleon reaches into the drawer by his hip and grabs out a spatula, waiting to flip the pancakes until he’s positive they’re golden on the other side. He’s had years of refining this skill; it’s not as useful as his others, and certainly much less appreciated, but when the smell of the pancakes slowly fill the kitchen and Gaby takes a deep breath before sighing contentedly, Napoleon feels happiness fill him in a pleasant buzz. Illya goes to sit across from Gaby at the table and they stay in comfortable silence while Napoleon finishes making a mound of pancakes. He sets the plate in front of them then turns to get dishes and syrup from the cabinets above the sink and butter from the fridge.  
  
“Looks good, Cowboy,” Illya says, taking a plate and fork from Napoleon. Gaby makes an agreeing sound and stabs a fork into the top pancake and flips it to her plate. Napoleon gestures for Illya to help himself before getting a few for his own.  
  
The more Gaby eats, the more she talks, and before the meal is over they all feel more awake and lively than they did at the start.  
  
Finished, Napoleon rises and collects their plates. Gaby stands, stretching her arms and revealing a small patch of skin on her waist where her shirt rides up. Napoleon looks away hastily. Feeling an embarrassed flush warm his body, he turns and puts the dishes into the sink.  
  
“We should get going,” Gaby says, looking distastefully down at the clothes she’s been wearing since yesterday. Illya stands, his chair making a faint noise against the tile.  
  
“I can help–” Illya starts but Napoleon shakes his head and forces a smile.  
  
“No need; I’ll walk you out.”  
  
Illya gives him a wavering look but doesn’t say anything. Napoleon reaches out, about to put his hand on Gaby’s waist to lead her out before abruptly letting his hand fall and stepping in front of her.  
  
They get to Illya’s car and when Gaby hugs him, he doesn’t know what to do with his arms, isn’t sure how tightly he usually hugs her, for how long.  
  
“See you tomorrow?” She asks before letting go.  
  
“Bright and early.” She smiles and gives him a wave before shivering and hopping into the car. Illya’s at the car door and offers Napoleon a nod.  
  
“See ya Peril,” he offers and Illya gives him a soft smile before folding himself into the car. Napoleon watches them drive off before making his way back upstairs, nerves fluttering in his stomach.  
  
He moves without thinking, taking himself to the kitchen to start mindlessly on the dishes.  
  
He knows what’s wrong. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time, but he remembers now.  
  
He’s in love.  
  
And there’s nothing he can do about it.  
  
\-----

Monday isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. It’s easier than he realizes, once he’d identified the feeling, to push it down. He’s not going to pretend he isn’t jealous when he realizes just how close Illya and Gaby stand together, or the looks they share whenever they overhear something amusing. Napoleon knew they’d been head over heels for each other; Illya had fallen for her after only days of knowing her and Gaby hadn’t been far behind. But, anticipating the ache he gets makes it easier to fake normalcy.  
  
Makes it so easy, in fact, that when Gaby grabs her coat, slides it over her shoulders and asks, “Are you almost finished? I’m starving,” Napoleon nods absently, signing the bottom of the document and closing the file with a smile up at her.  
  
“Illya, are you sure you don’t want to come?” Gaby asks as Napoleon stands and slips his coat on.  
  
Like everyday they’ve been in the office, Illya has a bagged lunch sitting at his feet with a single sandwich in it. Illya looks up briefly from his work and gives her a close lipped smile. “No, thank you.”

Gaby gives him a nod and walks to the door. Napoleon follows behind her and once they’re outside, Gaby slows enough to link her arm through Napoleon’s. That’s all he needs for his heart to flutter in his chest. His hands, shoved deep into his pocket, get sweaty and he glances down at her, but she’s looking at the little family across the street. Napoleon swallows heavily and finds himself focusing too intently on his walking. He can’t remember how long to make his steps, mindful Gaby’s a whole foot smaller than he is, but he doesn’t want to walk _too_ slow.  
  
There’s a slight pressure on his arm and Napoleon is suddenly rushed with sound as his focus broadens. He blinks, startled, and sees Gaby’s turning her head to look at him.  
  
“- about you?”  
  
His face flushes but hopefully she can’t tell the blush from the general redness cold weather causes.  
  
“What?”  
  
She smiles crookedly at him and narrows her eyes slightly as if she’s about to start laughing. “I _said_ I adore the summers, but winter will always be my favorite weather. What about you?” She cocks her eyebrow and he looks away, licking his lips.  
  
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he says. “It’s much more comfortable to wear a suit in cool seasons.”

She hums and tightens her arm, pulling the two closer together.  
  
“Illya likes the spring,” she says, simply, and Napoleon isn’t sure if the flash of jealously is because she knew that about him, or because she brought him up. He can’t think of anything to say; his mouth feels too dry. She gives him a brief look but seems content enough to walk the rest of the way in silence.

She lets go of his arm to grab the door handle and he grabs the door above her head and pulls it open further for her to walk in. They don’t wait long to be seated and their food comes out even faster. Napoleon gives it a cautious look but Gaby’s already digging in and so he brings the sandwich to his mouth and takes a bite. It’s not terrible, certainly not the worst thing he’d ever eaten, but he can’t say he’s pleased with it. Gaby seems to have no qualms about the food, however, and begins telling an animated story between bites.

Napoleon loosens up, forgets about why he was even tense to begin with, until Gaby reaches across the table and snags some fries off his plate. It’s so casual, she doesn’t even acknowledge it; Napoleon’s breath catches in his chest and the tension reenters his frame. He tries to think how he usual responds to this and can’t; his words escape him. Gaby doesn’t notice the internal struggle and continues to gesture wildly before putting them in her mouth.

Mindful of his movements, he rotates his plate so the fries are closer to her. She grins and thanks him, reaching for another handful.  
  
Lunch feels a lot longer after that.  
  
\-----

“Come on, Cowboy,” Illya says, fixing the collar on his leather jacket. Napoleon opens his eyes from where he’d been dozing the tail end of the evening. He’d finished his files early but had stayed in solidarity. Illya smirks at him. “You can sleep later. Gaby is waiting for us.”  
  
It’s been several days since his awkward lunch and he’s mostly figured out how to behave again, but he still warms at the mention of her. Illya’s still looking at him in amusement but just turns and starts lazily out the door. Napoleon stands and grabs his coat, sliding it on as he walks. He matches Illya’s stride and the two walk quickly to the front where Gaby’s leaning against the wall waiting on them.  
  
“About time, gentlemen,” she says with a head tilt, then gesturing to the door. “Shall we?”  
  
Gaby leads them out and on the sidewalk Napoleon and Illya trail after her side-by-side. The sun’s already set and their breath drifts in the air in front of them before disappearing. It’s cold, the wind biting at his exposed face, but it’s nice. The wind rushes at them and Napoleon shivers, raising his shoulders to more thoroughly protecting his neck. He missteps, walking into Illya’s space. Illya bumps into him and Napoleon steps back onto his side of the sidewalk.  
  
“Sorry, Peril,” he says with a wide grin, but his heart is thundering in his ears at the contact.  
  
He’s hyperconscious of where he walks, making sure to keep just far enough away so that he wouldn’t stumble into Illya again.  
  
\-----

Being around them becomes a balancing act Napoleon’s not sure he’s prepared for. It’s the unconscious action of being with them before realizing just how bad of an idea it is. It’s finding himself in the middle of laughing and suddenly wondering if he’s laughing too hard. It’s tensing up when he realizes just how close he and Gaby are sitting on the couch listening to the radio. It’s suddenly being unclear on when friendly jesting with Illya borders flirting words. It’s not realizing the flaw in the evening until they’re all sitting down to a dinner he’s prepared only to realize he has candles lit and the snow is falling past the window and the radio in the other room is just loud enough for background noise, and it occurs to him how wonderful this would be as a _date_.  
  
He knows allowing this to grow is wrong. It’s a terrible, terrible idea. Not only is it _illegal_ but Gaby and Illya are perfect for each other and he’d never be able to live with himself if he brought either of them unhappiness. Briefly, he wonders if he shouldn’t just ask for solo assignments, or even a transfer back to the CIA. Selfishly, he works out that despite his limited skillset, they do need him and he won’t leave them lacking a smooth-talking thief.  
  
The real issue, Napoleon thinks, is that he’s started to think of them as a family, and it’s hard to avoid spending time with them when it’s all he wants to do. Because he can’t go out and enjoy himself alone anymore. Because he can’t sit at home without thinking of how Illya and Gaby fill space better than Napoleon ever could’ve imagined. He already knows he’s selfish and he might not deserve them, but he’ll be damned if he gives them up.  
  
\-----

Gaby comes back from her break with a grin and all but dances to Napoleon’s desk. He can tell her energy’s high, her eyes wide and sparkling with happiness.  
  
“Good lunch?” He asks, capping his pen. In a rush to get his work done before the holidays he worked through break.  
  
“Is it true you can ride in carriages around town?” She asks in a rush and Napoleon feels a smile pulling at his lips.  
  
“Do you, Miss Mechanic, want to ride on an old fashioned horse and buggy?” She purses her lips but not even that can stop the excited grin from showing.  
  
“ _Napoleon_.”  
  
“Yes,” he says, swallowing down a laugh. “I believe they take you through the Park.”  
  
Gaby stares at him, still smiling widely. “Will you take us? I overheard Peggy talking about it and she said it’s lovely.” Gaby tilts her voice into a British accent she’d been practicing to mimic Peggy’s tone.  
  
“You think Peril will go for it?”  
  
Gaby nods, a strong positive and Napoleon has half a thought that this is a setup.  
  
“Okay,” he says looking back down at the file on his desk. “When do you want to go?”  
  
“Tonight?”  
  
Napoleon looks up with faint surprise. He shrugs, confusion clear on his face. “Sure,” he replies hesitantly. “We can leave right after work.” Gaby grabs his hand and squeezes, thanking him happily. She moves to her own desk but the warmth of her hand against his lingers.  
  
“Is there any reason you want to do it tonight?”  
  
She looks up, relaxing her face and raising her eyebrows as if she hadn’t a thought in the world. “No reason. It’s going to be warmer than the past week has been.”  
  
He can’t argue with that logic, especially not when she gives him a small smile and he feels the warmth of a full bodied blush. Hastily he looks down and hopes he fills out the rest of the forms correctly.  
  
\-----  
  
At the end of the day, Illya meets them on their way out; he’d been stuck in all day meetings and looks annoyed, but he relaxes upon seeing them, his face loses the tight, pinched look around his eyes and mouth and his shoulders drain of tension in response. He’s wearing a scarf Gaby made; it’s a dark blue knit terribly done. She’d made them both one, claiming she just wanted the practice. Napoleon’s is deep red with misplaced stitching and a crooked finish, but he cherishes it more than he would the most valuable art piece.  
  
Illya gives them the soft smile of his and Napoleon smiles back widely, forcing it to stay even as his entire body tenses when Gaby walks up to Illya and slips her arm through his.  
  
“Lead the way, Napoleon,” she says, shifting her weight to her toes and back in a slow bounce. He tilts his head in acknowledgment and heads for the door. They linger a moment before trailing after him, staying just a step behind. He can hear them talking softly to each other and he tries not to think of what they could be saying or the looks they’re surely exchanging, full of the love and adoration he sees whenever they’re together.  
  
For an instant the urge to run strikes him again; he almost wishes he were strong enough to leave, certain it would be better in the long run.  
  
Almost as if she could sense what he was thinking, Gaby comes up past his side and walks a little in front of him, turning around to walk backwards.  
  
“You grew up here, did you do this a lot?” She asks, glancing over her shoulder to keep marching backwards.  
  
“What? Walk around in the cold?” He asks, grinning at her when she gives him a flat look. “No, we lived too far north for all this.” He gestures around himself at the decorated buildings and the sidewalks that are beginning to get crowded as they walk closer and closer to main roads. Gaby steps to the side and, walking forward, loops her arm through Napoleon’s. They walk in companionable silence a few blocks, letting the chatter settle around them as they slip into anonymity. Gaby tilts her head, staring up at the buildings as they pass under them, tightening her grip on his arm in happiness. Every time she does Napoleon becomes acutely aware that she should be grabbing Illya’s hand and suddenly the sound of Illya’s shoes crunching the salt on the sidewalk becomes unbearably loud behind him.  
  
Napoleon shifts, looking over his shoulder to Illya. Illya looks up and Napoleon gives him a crooked smile. “Awfully quiet back there,” he says cheerfully, masking his brief check on Illya’s emotions.  
  
Illya hums. “I am,” he pauses, then, “enjoying the view.”  
  
Gaby laughs and Napoleon’s eyes are drawn to her. She’s looking past him, eyes bright and a wide smile making her all but glow.  
  
“It sure is beautiful,” Gaby’s eyes meet his and he fervently hopes the redness in his face isn’t visible to them.  
  
“It doesn’t get much better than New York at Christmas,” he agrees hurriedly and turns his head away from both of them.  
  
“You’re biased,” Gaby teases but doesn’t disagree.  
  
\-----

Central Park is bustling when they arrive. The night truly is the best they’ve had all week and people are out taking advantage. They walk to the entrance, moving as one around families and lovers and businessmen just trying to get home while kids run back and forth tossing fists full of snow at each other. Gaby untwines their arms and goes to wander ahead of him. Napoleon falls back and walks companionably next to Illya as they trail after Gaby. White lights hang overhead in the trees, making Illya look soft and far too beautiful. Napoleon looks away and scans the Park, a sudden sense of calm overtaking him.  
  
“So, what do you think?” He asks. Illya looks at him and Napoleon shrugs, gesturing broadly at all the people around them, at the lights overhead and the music heard playing from the street, filtering out of shops. Illya looks around, scrutinizing the area before his eyes rest back onto Napoleon. His pupils are wide in the dimness of the Christmas lights and low lamps spaced out along the sidewalk and Napoleon licks his lips.  
  
“I think it is early to decorate for Christmas,” Illya says finally. Napoleon huffs a laugh. He wants to wrap his arm around Illya’s shoulder but shoves his hand further into his pocket.  
  
“January _is_ a while away,” Napoleon agrees with mock seriousness. He can see Illya’s mouth twitch up in a small smile and warms inside. He has a passing thought to keep his own decorations up until the Russian Christmas in January, to give Illya a little bit of tradition.  
  
“But,” Illya says, looking around. “It is not bad.”  
  
Napoleon feels impossibly happy at the admittance but scoffs, giving Illya an exaggerated eye-roll.  
  
“ _Not bad_ , just what they were aspiring for.”  
  
Illya willfully ignores the sarcasm and nods with a hum. “Good. They succeed.”  
  
The sound of horse hooves draws their attention before Napoleon can comment. They look behind them and a carriage toted by two horses approaches them leisurely. Illya watches the horses with wide eyes and a face not quite devoid of the awe he usually keeps masked. Napoleon allows himself a small smile before looking around for first Gaby and then for the beginning of the ride. Illya’s head turns as the horses pass and Napoleon calls out for Gaby. She’s smiling as she reaches them, the lights off the trees casting soft shadows on her face, making her dimples appear deeper. Napoleon’s breath catches in his throat and he hates himself for it, for falling for his friends, for agreeing to do this even when he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.  
  
“If I’m not mistaken,” he says in a tone that clearly means he’s not, “they look to be heading towards the Boathouse. Are you ready?” Gaby shares a look with Illya over his shoulder and throws out her hands for him to take the lead. She and Illya walk beside, but slightly behind him.  
  
The line for the rides wasn’t long; with the price and the amount of carriages in use, the people who could afford it weren’t kept waiting.  
  
Napoleon walks up to their carriage after paying the boy at the front of the line, and slowly approaches the horses. The driver nods, tipping his hat at them. “Sirs, ma’am.”  
  
Napoleon runs hand slowly down the nose of one of the horses. Its velvet lips nuzzle against his palm and he smiles, moves his hand to scratch lightly at the soft skin above its mouth. Gaby joins him hesitantly and without speaking he grabs her wrist and guides her hand to the horses nose. He looks up for Illya, who he sees standing by the carriage door, hands in his jacket pocket, his face carefully blank. Napoleon’s known him long enough to know what that means.  
  
“Come here, Peril,” Napoleon encourages. Illya looks conflicted before shaking his head once. Napoleon only has to tilt his head pleadingly before Illya relents and steps forward. He’s stiff, standing just far enough away he can’t reach the beasts, and Napoleon grabs his wrist like he’d done with Gaby and guides him to the second horse’s nose. He stiffens further, before relaxing, face going soft. Napoleon’s chest feels tingly and he swallows, unbelieving his partners are rendered so quiet and still by this.  
  
“Sir?” The driver says, confusion in his voice. The three look up and Napoleon smiles at him, an apology rolling off his tongue on impulse. The driver accepts it, frowning ever so slightly, and the three of them move to the carriage. Illya helps Gaby in and then turns to Napoleon.  
  
“Get in, Cowboy,” he says, almost impatiently. Napoleon furrows his brow.  
  
“In,” Illya orders. Napoleon opens his mouth to protest but Illya nods towards the driver, “We have already taken too much time.”  
  
The driver’s staring at them impatiently and so Napoleon quickly steps into the carriage and sits across from Gaby and Illya who sits beside her.  
  
Napoleon stares back at them, as they watch him silently and he narrows his eyes. “This was supposed to be a date,” he says slowly, voice tilting in question in spite of the statement.  
  
“Yes,” Illya answers, slowly but not in confusion. His tone holds no hidden meaning that he thinks Napoleon’s being particularly stubborn.  
  
“I was perfectly happy to wait for you,” he says. Illya just stares at him breathing evenly. Gaby sighs and looks up at the dark sky above them.  
  
“Solo, just enjoy the evening.”  
  
He should have insisted on waiting at the boathouse, he thinks, looking up at the starless sky. It would have been easier to tame the fiery jealousy rising in his chest at the two of them pressed together across from him. He keeps his eyes firmly on the Park slowly passing by them.  
  
\-----

The ride comes to an end and Napoleon can feel his breathing start to ease. It’s easier when he doesn’t have to stare at them and once the horse is stopped he jumps out first. He turns and holds his hand out for Gaby. She grasps his hand and guides herself down; her ankle rolls and he grabs her, one hand pulling her towards him and the other grabbing her waist in support.  
  
She looks up at him and relaxes into his body, blinking wide eyes at him and breathing deeply. Napoleon’s heart is racing and he has the unbearable urge to lean in and kiss her. He tilts his head, curves his back to bend down towards her, when Illya steps onto the ground behind Gaby, sending Napoleon’s heart racing for an entirely new reason. He jerks away from her and then forces a smile before checking that she’s stable and moving to tip the driver. When he turns back around Gaby is whispering something to Illya and he’s staring down at her with intensity; Napoleon swallows thickly and starts to walk away, giving the couple their moment.  
  
\-----  
  
He walks slow, unsure if they’d want to continue through the Park with him but not wanting to appear as though he’s running. He won’t blame them if they decide to head in a different direction; it’s hardly ignorable what he’d almost done to Gaby, with Illya not even two feet away. Guilt churns his stomach. He needs to apologize, but he won’t bother them with it tonight if they don’t come to him; he’ll give them their space and tomorrow he’ll ask for their forgiveness.  
  
Hell, he’ll even go back to Sanders. He’d be loath to go back under his command but if that’s what they want-  
  
His thoughts are interrupted abruptly by a snowball hitting the back of his head. He ducks, the chill already making its way down the back of his jacket and making him shiver. He turns and barely has enough time to dodge a second snowball flying towards his face.    
  
He looks up from the pseudo shield his arms made and his faces scrunches in confusion when he sees Illya and Gaby a few paces away from him, both looking entirely too innocent. They come closer and he just watches in confusion as Gaby leans down and scoops up a handful of snow as she walks, patting it absently into a fist sized ball.  
  
“You left in a hurry,” Illya says and his posture is loose but there’s a look in his eyes Napoleon can’t identify from their distance.  
  
“I thought it would be wise–“ He’s cut off by the snowball in Gaby’s hand hitting his side. He looks over at her and she’s grinning but her eyes are serious.  
  
“You thought wrong,” she says, swooping for another fistful of snow. There’s a flicker of movement from Illya and when he looks over, he sees Illya’s arm pulling back and he doesn’t have the time to dodge as loosely packed snowball hits his chest and explodes in fine snow, melting instantly as it hits his neck and face and it has him jerking to dust the snow away from his face.  
  
“Are you actually going to stand there and lob snow at me?” He asks, eyes darting between the two who are casually drifting further from each other.  
  
“Only if you don’t fight back,” Illya says and Napoleon’s forehead crinkles in incredulous confusion.  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
“Surely you’ve had a snowball fight before,” Gaby says and she’s got another snowball in her hands.  
  
“I...”  Napoleon starts to protest but then stops and Gaby either isn’t satisfied with the snow in her hands yet or she’s giving him time to think. He doesn’t think he’s even played in the snow since he’d been small, usually preferring to travel to warm climates whenever it’s winter at home. Illya doesn’t wait for him to get his thoughts in order and snow hits him from the left and then from the right when Gaby throws hers at him.  
  
“Wait,” he says, slowly. He’s so confused at what’s going on right now. This is not the fight that should be going on; Gaby should be spitting words at him, Illya should be trembling with the desire to hit him.  
  
“Stop thinking so hard,” Gaby orders, stepping closer empty handed.  
  
“We don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Illya adds and when Napoleon looks over at him he’s smirking.  
  
“Just play back,” Gaby says, amusement in her soft voice.  
  
Napoleon’s not used to being on shaky ground. He’s the man two steps ahead; that’s why he’s so effective. But ever since meeting these two he feels two steps behind and he doesn’t know how to catch up. His words fail him around them and he’s never felt so utterly unprepared.  
  
“Napoleon,” Gaby says softly and his eyes dart to her. Instinctively he wants to protest the name, but finds he likes the way it sounds when Gaby says it. It feels safe in her mouth.  
  
“Just make a snowball and throw it.” Her voice is still soft and he finds he can’t disobey the command. With only a moments more hesitation, he leans down and grabs a handful of snow. His gloves weren’t made for this and the cold almost immediately seeps into his fingers.  
  
The snowball is lopsided and he throws it at Gaby like he’d toss her a ball. Gaby catches it whole and gives him an exasperated look but doesn’t say anything. Instead she shifts and throws the snow at Illya, who was unprepared and raises his hand to block it, only to make the snowball explode into fine mist all over his face.  
  
Gaby laughs and grabs Napoleon’s arm and forces him into a retreat far enough away they’d have time to avoid anything Illya tosses their way.  
  
“Come on,” Gaby says exasperatedly. “Don’t make me fight him myself.”  
  
Napoleon has no doubt she can handle her own against Peril but she grabs his arm and jerks, forcing him into a half-bow. He crouches and begins to scoop snow into his fist. He looks across their patch of the Park and Illya is crouched as well, knees hovering above the snow with a cluster of snowballs at his feet. Napoleon begins packing the snow faster and Gaby sends him a crooked grin before gathering a fistful of snowballs in her hand and darting across the patch of no-mans-land in an ambush.  
  
The impromptu snowball fight only escalates; they don’t give each other enough time to resupply after the first batch of snowballs and eventually they just begin tackling each other into the snow. It’s not until they’re done that Napoleon realizes his suit is probably ruined, his legs nearly numb with cold. The cold pinches at his face but not even the absolute discomfort of romping around in the snow with improper clothes can damped the fluttery happiness in his chest.  
  
Gaby shivers, wraps her arms around herself tightly, and does a simple little bounce to try and get warm. Illya looks equally cold, his face paler than usual and his nose a vibrant red. His cap is askew and Napoleon wants nothing more than to reach out and fix it. As if sensing his thoughts, Illya takes the ivy cap off and runs his fingers through his hair before securing it on straight. His eyes dart to Napoleon and Napoleon tries to come up with something witty, something that would explain being caught staring, but his brain falters when Illya takes a step forward and grabs the red scarf around Napoleon’s neck. Using the fabric like a lead he pulls and Napoleon steps closer, unable to look away from the icy blue of Illya’s eyes.  
  
He’s not sure what he wants to happen, his heart is pounding in his ears and his breath catches in his throat. They’re too close, this is too public. Napoleon just wants to push across the mere inches separating them to see what the cold tastes like on Illya’s lips.  
  
“It does not surprise me you do not know how to wear this properly,” Illya says, voice low and deep. Goosebumps rise across his skin and the small of his back tingles, like a shiver barely contained. Almost in slow motion, Illya works the scarf around Napoleon’s neck and tightens it enough to press against his chin but not to suffocate. The effect doesn’t do much, the scarf too cold and wet to provide comfort now, but Napoleon can’t speak with Illya so close.  
  
“There,” he says, sounding satisfied. He gives the scarf a single pat and Napoleon’s mouth dries at the pressure Illya puts on his chest. Illya steps back and Napoleon sees Gaby watching them, a small smile on her face, and he reaches up to touch the scarf now resting snuggly against his neck.  
  
“Well, who knew I’d been doing it wrong all these years.” He says, forcing his voice with bravado.  
  
“Being a spy is not the only thing you are terrible at,” Illya remarks back, not turning from his walk to Gaby. Napoleon’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t comment and walks until the three of them are shivering on the sidewalk. Gaby, with her hands shoved into her pockets and shoulders hunched, shifts on her feet to bump into Napoleon’s side.  
  
“Take us home, I need something warm to drink,” she orders. His brow twitches in confusion but he nods and slides an easy grin into place. He isn’t sure why they wouldn’t rather go to their own home, but he’s not going to question it.  
  
“Anything for you,” he says. His stomach tightens as soon as the words leave his lips and his eyes flicker from Gaby to Illya and back but neither react to the phrasing. Illya starts walking, shortening his stride to wait for them. Gaby gives Napoleon an impatient head jerk. He can see her breath escape the gap between her lips and he takes a deep breath of his own before starting on the long walk home.  
  
\-----  


Stepping into his apartment is relief enough from the chill, but he moves immediately to the thermostat in the hall and turns it up. The furnace rumbles as it turns on and then heat is flowing out of the vents against the ceiling. Satisfied, he unwraps the wet scarf from around his neck and holds it as he shrugs off his coat, moving to the kitchen to drape both over the back of a chair. They’re both already in the kitchen, shoes in the corner and jackets settled over a chair neatly.  
  
The scene is pleasantly domestic but he doesn’t give himself the indulgence to enjoy it. He grabs the kettle off the stove and fills it with water before setting it back down, turning the dial until the flame sparked underneath. At a glance over his shoulder, he sees the two settling into the chairs behind him, relaxing in the warmth of the kitchen. He reaches into the cabinet over the sink and draws out a tin of cocoa powder.  
  
“Store bought?” Gaby asks, aghast and clearly teasing.  
  
Napoleon gives her a smirk and opens the tin.  
  
“Just like mom made,” he says and reaches over to grab three mugs.  
  
“Your mother did not cook?”  
  
Napoleon doesn’t look up at Illya’s question, continuing to scoop out spoonfuls of the dry powder into the bottom of the mugs.  
  
“She never had the time,” he says simply. The kettle begins to hum and he grabs it by the handle quickly before it begins its shrill scream and pours the boiling water into the mugs. The water colors dark brown, clusters of powder floating dry at the top of the cup. He grabs a spoon from the drawer by his hip and stirs them until they’re mixed. Gaby and Illya are standing at his side when he goes to drop the spoon in the sink and they both reach for one, holding it close to their chest.  
  
“Thanks, Solo.” Gaby smiles over her mug and wanders into the living room. A wistful smile turns up his lips and his eyes flicker to Illya, who is staring at him. Illya gives him another second of intensity before looking away unembarrassed.  
  
“This better be good, Cowboy,” he says and Napoleon huffs a laugh.  
  
“Can anything American made stand up to the judgment of Russia?”  
  
Illya smiles and blinks once. “No,” he says simply and follows Gaby out of the room. Napoleon rolls his eyes fondly before grabbing his own cup and ignores the happy flutter in his chest  
  
Gaby’s tucked up in his armchair and Illya is at the radio. He fiddles with the dial and static fills the room before slow Christmas music filters out. Napoleon settles onto the couch, folding one leg over the other and leaning against the arm. His foot bounces softly in time with the deep singing and he doesn’t realize he’s humming quietly along until Illya startles him silent when he sets down close enough for their thighs to touch.  
  
“ _Hey there_ , Peril,” he says, startled. Illya rests on arm on the back of the couch and then leans over slowly to set his mug down on the coffee table inches from their knees.  
  
“I think,” he says slowly, straightening and leaning into Napoleon. “It is not quite warm enough.”  
  
Napoleon swallows hard and tries to keep his breathing even, ignoring the flush heating his body. He looks across the room, at the vent still pouring heat into the room.  
  
“Another few minutes and it should be warm enough, I think,” Napoleon gets out.  
  
“I do not want to wait,” Illya says, voice low and gravelly. The hair at the base of Napoleon’s neck rises in response and his breath catches. Before he can respond, Gaby hums across the room and leans forward to set her own mug down before rising gracefully.  
  
“I don’t think it’s fair to wait,” she says, walking around the coffee table to lean in forward, effectively trapping Napoleon. “Especially when we’ve got ourselves a nice warm spy to cuddle with.” She straddles Napoleon’s lap and he stiffens, heart racing.  
  
“ _What_?” His voice comes out high and he swallows before coughing lightly. “What?” He asks again, his voice controlled. Gaby shares a look with Illya before looking back at him. Her eyes have lost the playful gleam and are tightening at the corners in concern.  
  
“Is this alright?” She asks, uncertain. Illya has started to withdraw, leaning back to give him space but not pulling away completely.  
  
“ _Is this—what_ are you doing?” His hands have fallen to Gaby’s waist, unsure if he wants to hold her in place or push her off.  
  
Gaby turns wide eyes to Illya and Napoleon can almost see the two at once but before he can read what’s going on, Gaby is sliding out of his hands and off his lap. She looks embarrassed, her skin reddened and eyes wide. Illya, too, leans back and at the space, Napoleon stands and moves to put the couch between them. Illya stands, shoulders hunched but his eyes are laser sharp.  
  
“Someone needs to explain to me what’s going on, now.” His voice is solid again and he moves to cross his arms over his chest to keep the trembling in his hands hidden. His fingertips feel burnt after holding Gaby and he can’t imagine how it would feel skin to skin.  
  
“We thought you’d be okay with this,” Gaby rushes to say and Napoleon frowns.  
  
“We know you do not want… intimate touch,” Illya says, saying the words carefully like he’s treading in a minefield. “But you have been acting wrong and you almost kissed Gaby.”  
  
Immediately, Napoleon’s stomach twists with guilty nausea and an apology works its way up his throat but the absolute confusion of the situation keeps him silent. They’re silent and the radio seems suddenly too loud. Napoleon licks at his lips.  
  
“I did want to kiss Gaby,” he admits, looking at their feet before looking at Illya and then Gaby. “I am sorry about that. But… I don’t have a _clue_ about what’s happening here.”  
  
“I know this is not your first rodeo, Cowboy. You know what cuddling is.” Napoleon coughs at Illya’s statement, air catching and lodging in his throat like a barrier.  
  
“We’re dating,” Gaby adds slowly and Napoleon blinks, eyes wild and focused on her.  
  
“No we’re not,” he says quickly and hurt flashes across Gaby’s face before disappearing.  
  
“We are,” Gaby insists stubbornly and Napoleon’s legs quiver under him.  
  
“Why? You have- you have _each other_.” He words stumble in his mouth and he looks between Gaby and Illya, eyes stinging. “We can’t do this,” his voice has dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
“Solo, we thought we already _were_ doing this,” Gaby says, taking a step towards him slowly, like he might dart off if she moved to fast.  
  
“What else would this be?” She asks and Napoleon breathes fast.  
  
“This doesn’t make sense. We don’t do this,” he tosses his hand out in a general gesture at the two of them and Illya frowns. His face is hardened and Napoleon feels guilty for causing the look, after having such a lighthearted evening.  
  
“We did not think,” Illya starts hesitantly, glancing at Gaby. They have identical looks of worried confusion; they look like they’re in over their heads and Napoleon’s forming words to cut this off as quick as he can but then Illya turns his eyes to him and he can’t move under the steely gaze. “You did not welcome it when we tried. We stopped trying and you were comfortable.”  
  
Napoleon frowns and Gaby moves even closer, hand partially outstretched.  
  
“Napoleon—”  
  
“No,” Napoleon says, moving back. “No, no you’re _together_.”  
  
“ _We’re_ together,” Gaby stresses and Napoleon pauses. Gaby’s face is twisted in sadness and Illya’s eyes are wide, concern clearly written on his features. He takes a moment to think, to play out the next few moves and wonder _what if_ ; what if they do this, date and love each other? What if it works and the most valuable thing he has wasn’t stolen at all, but given to him freely?  
  
But, he hadn’t been all but uncatchable by only thinking about the best outcomes and dangerous thoughts flit through his head and linger longer than the good thoughts had.  
  
What if they don’t work out and it puts them in danger? What if someone changes their mind, decides a relationship is indeed meant for two people? What if they’re found out? He’d be jailed, Illya would only be so lucky, Gaby would be labeled words he won’t even dare think about directed towards her. He swallows and brings his arms to cross over his chest, pushing the emotion out of his voice and pulling up the unwavering mask that hasn’t failed him yet. He will end this now; he will not put them in danger.  
  
“No, we’re not, and we won’t be,” he says, voice level and smooth and he can only hope this won’t hurt them too much, that they can still be partners together. Gaby’s eyes dart all over his face but he’s an expert and his emotions are already carefully hidden.  
  
“You two,” he looks away from Gaby to Illya and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He looks away hastily, staring at the lamp just behind Gaby’s shoulder. It’s easier to look at her; she’s much more apt at showing her emotions than Illya is and seeing the hurt confusion written so openly on Illya’s face nearly made him cave. “Are great together. Perfect, even. There’s- there’s too much at stake if I join in on this. It’s not _safe_ or fair, to either of you.” Gaby makes a protesting sound but before she speaks, Illya steps forward, body almost flush against Napoleon’s. He grabs Napoleon’s face in both of his large hands; they’re cold and they feel reassuring on his fevered skin.  
  
“Peril,” he says. His voice quivers and he clenches his mouth closed, swallowing hard. Illya stares into his eyes and Napoleon can hardly breathe at the intensity in his look.  
  
“You are worth the risk,” he says, his eyes never leaving Napoleon’s. Illya leans in and presses his lips to Napoleon’s and he imagines Illya can feel his heart racing at his pulse point.  
  
It’s simple, chaste. When they break apart Gaby is standing just behind Illya, watching Napoleon closely. Illya drops his hand in stages, moving from Napoleon’s jaw to his neck, to wrap around his upper arm and slide down to his wrist. Gaby steps in closer and licks her lips before biting at her bottom one. He can’t take his eyes off her and he hopes Illya can’t feel his entire body trembling. It doesn’t make sense, there’s no reason for them to want him in this. He’s not needed and if there’s one thing he’s learned in life, it’s that he’s only wanted when he’s needed.  
  
As if able to read his thoughts, Gaby steps forward and presses against him.  
  
“We’ve always wanted you, Napoleon.” She leans up and presses a kiss at the corner of his mouth.  
  
He wants to throw out a joke, wants to laugh this off and distance himself but the words wrap themselves around his heart and he can only stare wide-eyed at her. She raises a hand and cards it through his hair and then grabs his other wrist.  
  
“Come on,” she says softly. He follows her and Illya, who hadn’t yet released his other wrist, trails after them. She leads them to his bedroom and pauses by the bed. “Sleep on it. We can talk tomorrow.”  
  
Napoleon doesn’t move and they don’t let him go.  
  
“Would you like us to stay?” Illya asks. Napoleon wants to smirk, wants to imply something more than just sleeping, but Gaby’s voice hasn’t quite faded from his ears and he can’t stop hearing _we’ve always wanted you_.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He isn’t used to getting what he wants, not so easily; he’s adapted to sneaking around and stealing the things that he holds valuable. But with one word they obey to his whim, Illya releases him to take off his belt and Gaby reaches up to undo her hairstyle. They strip themselves of anything uncomfortable but stay clothed and don’t seem to expect any different of him.  
  
He sees them share a look and he realizes he hasn’t moved since entering the room. Snapping himself out of it, he loosens his tie and carefully lays it across his dresser before doing the same with the cufflinks on his wrist and undoing the belt around his waist.  
  
It doesn’t even occur to him to get into pajamas until he’s in bed and his two partners are climbing in beside him, sandwiching him in the middle.  
  
They’re careful, laying just so so they aren’t pressing against him more than necessary but are a soothing presence. He wonders when they found out so much about him, wonders what to say, if he should thank them or wish them goodnight.  
  
He hadn’t realized he’d stiffened until Gaby raises slightly and Illya’s hand finds his wrist, putting his fingers firmly on his pulse point.  
  
“Sleep,” Illya orders and Gaby smiles at the both of them.  
  
“We’ll be here when you wake,” she reassures and he obediently closes his eyes. He feels the bed shift as Gaby settles back down and her gentle even breathing lulls him into a dozed state. Illya’s fingers around his wrist are like an anchor, dragging him deeper into comfort, and Napoleon falls asleep to warmth radiating in his chest.  


**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this was decent and not terribly ooc! Let me know what you think :)


End file.
